(I'd Take) Just a Part of You
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: "Don't you tell me no truths / I want all of your lies." Joe POV, 1x13.


**Title**: _(I'd Take) Just a Part of You_ [1/1]  
**Universe**: _The Following_ present, 1x13  
**Pairing**: Joe Carroll/Claire Matthews  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Summary**: "Don't you tell me no truths / I want all of your lies." Joe POV.

**Author's Note**: Thanks to Jamie N Commons. I couldn't get his song/this idea out of my head. And damn, have I missed writing these two.

* * *

_"__I loved you once, Joe. Maybe... Maybe I could learn to love you again. I mean, at least—at least let me try."  
"…__**If**__ I give up Joey."  
"Yeah."  
"But... you're scared of me."  
"Just give me some time."_

—Claire Matthews & Joe Carroll, 1x13

* * *

**_Don't you tell me no truths; I want all of your lies._**_  
So give me all of your lies.  
Give me all of your lies.  
__**Give me all of your lies.**_

* * *

Joe was shaking as he held her, as he kissed her. He hadn't been lying at the prison; hadn't been faking it: she still made his hands shake. She still made him speechless. She still amazed him—more in this moment now, than ever before.

He could feel her now, so warm and solid and _real _in his arms, and he still couldn't quite believe it. He'd thought about her so often in the past decade; he'd dreamed about her and fantasized about her and longed for her, day and night. It was hard for him to separate all the daydreams from what was happening now—for this was almost like a dream, the best dream in the world—but he managed it. Through the haze of love and lust and disbelief, he felt her in his hands, felt her against him, and he knew she was real. He knew that she wanted him again.

He tangled his fingers through her hair—so soft and smooth, better than he remembered or could ever imagine—and stepped close enough so their chests met. He felt her breasts brush against him for just a second before she flinched away, and he froze, terrified that he'd scared her off once more. But she didn't tear herself from him and she didn't push him back. She didn't tell him to stop, or to leave, like she had before. She just stood there, motionless in his arms, and he struggled to find a way to put her at ease. He didn't want to touch her again for fear of scaring her, but he didn't know what else he could do to prove that he wasn't going to hurt her.

Maybe she was right—maybe this just _would_ take time. Maybe there was no way to expedite the process.

The thought saddened him, but he quickly realized it was better than what he'd had for the last ten years. It was better than nothing. Looking her over once more as he broke their kiss and pulled back a bit, he realized that if this was it—if this was all they were doing tonight—he at least had to tell her one thing before they parted.

"I love you," Joe whispered, and even though he knew it was too soon—he knew she wasn't ready to say it back yet—he still needed it to be said aloud. He needed to know she heard it. "Claire, I love you." Removing his hands from her hair, he ran his fingers gently down her cheeks, and brushed his thumbs against the soft skin between her nose and upper lip. When he opened his eyes to look at her, hers were there, waiting for him.

He chanced the smallest smile upon meeting her eyes, and he caught something—could it be a flicker of her own smile?—that she sent his way. He leaned forward, eager for more from her, and was relieved to see that she didn't automatically shrink away from him. Slowly, carefully, he moved his hands so that they cupped either side of her face. As gently as he could, he lifted her chin and guided her lips to his, the way he'd done the first time they'd ever kissed, all those long years ago.

He wondered if she was thinking of that first kiss now, or perhaps the first time they'd made love, or maybe that night that she'd come home from the doctor and told him, without a doubt in her voice and with the biggest smile on her face, that she really was pregnant and carrying his child. _That_ had been a very long night, much longer than any other, and he smiled against her lips now as he recalled it. He had worshipped her that night. He'd kissed and caressed her from her forehead to her toes and everywhere in between, paying special attention to her flat stomach that would soon grow round with his child. He'd knelt at the altar that was her—her love, her beauty, her utter perfection in his eyes—and he'd paid tribute to her, and to the baby of his that she'd chosen to shelter inside herself, as best as he knew how.

He would worship her still, if given the chance. He'd do anything for her, anything in the world.

God, he loved her. He adored her. He still had no idea how he'd survived these last ten years without her beside him.

Reluctantly pulling his lips from hers again, he took a half step back so he could look into her eyes as he spoke. "I love you so much, sweetheart," he whispered, staring down into her eyes as he cradled her beautiful face in his hands. He could feel her shiver beneath his touch, but he knew in his bones—in his _heart_—that it wasn't from fear. It couldn't be, not anymore. She'd spent too much time with him—she _understood_ him now, every side of him, the good and the bad, more than anyone else ever had.

He swallowed, beating back a lump that was forming in his throat. He'd done the hard part, he'd told her, but... There were still things left unsaid. There were still ways they could implode from within once more. "You do... _believe me_, don't you?" he asked aloud, unable to keep his worried to himself. "You do trust me on that, that I love you?"

With one quick nod, she buried his fears and lifted his mood once more.

"Good," he whispered, drawing her into his arms once more. "That's good," he murmured as he pressed his lips to hers once more, and burrowed his hands in her hair, and stepped so close that he could feel her whole body line up with his. He knew he was moving too fast—he could feel her struggling to keep up with his kiss; he could feel her edging away from him inch by inch as he continued to step forward—but he couldn't stop himself or let go of her. He felt like he was getting high just from touching her and kissing her like this, and he couldn't give up that feeling. Considering the fact that he'd been deprived of life's simple pleasures—like alcohol and sex and _her_—for ten fucking years—he supposed maybe he actually was getting a little wired from what was going on here.

But who could blame him? It'd been _ten_ years.

Ten years since he'd seen her face. Ten years since he'd touched her, kissed her, made love with her. Ten years since he'd held their little baby in his arms.

Part of his heart broke as thoughts of their now-disappeared son burst in his mind. He'd spent the last few weeks trying to reconcile the two incarnations of their child in his mind, but to barely any avail. That tiny helpless little newborn he remembered seeing cradled in his wife's arms just did not match the half-grown little man who'd appeared in front of him less than a week and a half ago—a boy who could walk and talk and think for himself. A boy who had looked at him and said _I know you_ without any contempt or anger or fear. A boy who hadn't screamed or run, but who had stood still and looked him right in the eye and said, without any prompting or coaching at all, _You're my dad._

Joe had nearly cried in that moment, so overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness and, yes, sadness, too. His son knew his face—that was something to rejoice about—but the fact that he'd had to say so aloud had only reminded Joe how much time the two of them had spent apart. So much _crucial_ time, developmentally and cognitively. Emotionally.

In the weeks leading up to their planned reunion, Joe had begun to worry that his son might not be able to attach to him the way he'd hoped, especially if Claire had told him anything about his incarceration. But Joe had known the moment Joey had stood and met his eye instead of cowering: Claire hadn't told him the truth. He'd been so filled with gratitude towards her at that moment—so overcome by relief—that he'd wished for her to be there with him just so he could pull her close and murmur his thanks in her ear. By hiding the truth from Joey, she'd made it possible for him to actually have a shot at having a real relationship with his own son one day, and he would never stop being grateful to her for that chance, despite everything else she'd to distance them all. It meant everything in the world to him, especially coming from her.

Thinking of their child now, as he held his wife in his arms, made Joe remember all those late nights they'd had with their little newborn. Even just a few months after Joey's birth, they had already begun talking about having a second baby. They'd never meant for Joey to be an only child. He and Claire had both grown up in single-child families, and neither wanted that for their son. They'd talked about it on more than one occasion, and Claire always made it clear, each time, that she wanted more children. _Maybe three, _she always said with a little smile, like maybe she was thinking of more, but was too afraid to say it. He had never minded. She could have a hundred of his children if she wanted; he would never try to stop her.

Maybe, he thought now as he kissed her more deeply and held her more tightly, maybe one day they'd talk about more children. When she eventually allowed him to take her to bed, when she opened herself once more to him and everything he could give her, they'd talk about it. It wasn't too late for them to try again.

Their son was gone for now, yes, but they'd get him back. They'd always get him back; they'd always be the three of them together—it was just a matter of time, like anything else. And besides, in the meantime, while he sent people out to reclaim his son, while he stayed here with Claire, he and she could plan for their future. It had been so long since they'd done that together. He remembered all the late nights they'd spent, talking on the phone across continents, or holding one another in bed after exhausting themselves in each other, and he smiled at the memory of all the possibilities they'd had back then. They used to talk about the future so eagerly when they'd been younger, with their whole lives spread out before them. Maybe they could get that zeal back again, too, along with everything else.

He didn't care if it took weeks or months or even years more—he'd wait for her to come back to him, however long it took. It had been harder, before, when he hadn't been sure how she felt after all the years apart. But now he knew—just the fact that she was here, in his arms willingly, her lips pressed tight against his—was such blissful proof of how she felt. Sure, maybe she wasn't yet ready to say she loved him back, but that hardly mattered. He knew she did, anyway: in the deepest corners of her heart and the furthest recesses of her memory, she loved him. A part of her always would.

She'd screamed it at him when she'd visited him in prison—_How could I love anyone after you?_—and while she'd been furious then and full of accusations that he'd ruined her life, the question still remained unanswered. How _could_ she love anyone after him? He certainly couldn't love anyone after her. …Though it wasn't like he'd exactly tried.

_She_ had tried, though, Joe knew, and it had come to no surprise to him when it hadn't worked out. You don't just bounce back from a marriage—a love—like what they'd had, and fall into something new without any lingering feelings for what once had been. You don't just forget what it had felt like to be loved and cared for and _known_ so wholly and so deeply by another person.

In the end, Joe knew, it didn't matter who she said she loved or didn't love. It didn't matter what the lawyers or the courts said about the legality of their marriage. A part of her would always love him, because a part of her would always be his wife. Just like a part of him would always, forever and ever, be her husband. Something so simple and base and instinctual as _emotions _could not change who they were to one another and who they would always be.

She could pretend she didn't love him; she could pretend to be unsure of what she wanted. But he knew when she looked inward, when she really stopped to examine her own feelings, he knew they hadn't changed over the years. Sure, she might not trust him anymore like she once had, and sure, she might claim to hate him... But as real as those new feelings were, the old feelings were still just as real, and they persisted despite the time and space the two of them had spent apart. Part of her hand never stopped loving him, never could. What was happening right now between them—this perfect, wonderful kiss—was a testament to that. If she truly did hate him, truly did feel not even an ounce of affection for him anymore, then there was no way she'd be here, kissing him the way she was. Especially not after Joey'd been taken.

That self-assured claim was the last happy thought he had with her, the last thought he had at all, before she shoved that knife into his gut and crumbled the perfect little world he'd been imagining for them into dust. One second he was kissing her—and he could swear she was kissing him back—and the next, she was trying to stab him to death.

And as the knife sank in, tearing through his skin and muscle and possibly organ tissue, he realized all at once that it was all over, and that probably it always had been. There were no second chances; there were no real-life fantasies. There was just her, trying to kill him even as she kissed him, and him, falling for it like the sap he was, forever so desperate for her love, and to re-create the life they'd once lived happily together.

As she shoved the knife in up to its hilt and he grunted in pain, tearing his lips from hers, he wondered how long she'd been planning this. Had she had this in mind when she'd allowed Roderick and the others to drive her here in the first place? Had she been envisioning this moment every time the two of them had come face to face over the past couple weeks? Or had she just seen Joey on TV, being carried to apparent safety by the FBI, and figured she had to make a break for it, too?

Joe wanted to laugh—and he would have, if he could even breathe. Did she really think she was going to get out of this now? How far had she expected to go? She'd already attempted to escape once, and promptly failed. Did she actually think that just by killing him, she'd be able to get out of here with all her limbs still attached and her heart still beating? He had nearly a hundred loyal disciples here that would slice her open in fury and revenge without even a second thought upon realizing she'd tried to kill their leader.

He gasped as she twisted the knife in his gut, the truth tearing him apart as much as the weapon in her hands: she didn't love him. Not the way she once had; no, he would never experience that purity of feeling with her again. Her mind had been poisoned—by all the news reports and the court appearances and all the fucking years apart—and there was no curing it now. No curing her.

She was beyond help—she'd turned into a rabid animal here, with his people, and in retrospect, he supposed it was his own fault. He shouldn't have let her stay here. He should have moved both her and Joey on quickly, once they were both together. He should have sent them up to that little house on the outskirts of Maine that he'd kept for them, and followed after them when he'd finished his work here and cleared out a space for himself in the history books, just like he'd originally planned.

But he'd been selfish. He'd underestimated what an attraction they'd prove—not only his wife, but his son, too. The second they'd arrived, he'd wanted them here, with him, at all times—so he could look at them and talk to them and just be in their presence whenever he liked. He was addicted to their company; he could hardly leave them alone for a couple hours at a time without checking in, even if it was just him peeking his head in the door before moving on. There was no way he could send them hundreds of miles away and still focus on what he needed to do.

So he'd kept them both here, with him and with everyone else, and he'd spelled ruin for himself in nearly every way imaginable.

He couldn't write his book, his people were getting picked off left and right, and now not only had he lost his son, but he'd lost his wife, too. That was all he could think of as he finally managed to push her away and stumble back, the knife still in his gut, and his hand clutching at his bleeding side. He'd lost both his son and his wife in one night, and he was never going to get either of them back. Even if Joey was returned to him, what did their family mean if Claire wasn't with them, too?

What did any of it mean if she wasn't here, if she didn't love him anymore like she once had? He'd planned this entire mission with her and their family in mind; now that both she and Joey were gone from him, what was left to do now?

The options flew to his mind at once, and sank in his possibly ruptured stomach. There were two outcomes here, right now: either she grabbed that knife and finished him off, or he yanked it out of his own flesh and went after her. One of them would die, and he wasn't sure yet just who it would be. He was running out of time, too—she was tensed, staring at him, eyes wild, waiting for him to attack.

And he almost did. He could feel his blood running hot in his veins and pouring out of his skin; he could feel her betrayal here—and every other one that had come before it—tear at his heart and rip it to shreds. She deserved to die for what she'd done to him, for how she'd turned on him and abandoned him and shamed him and cheated on him—and now tried to kill him. She deserved to be sliced open and carved into pieces, just like all the others who had wronged him.

But before he could let the fury take over—before it became truly unbridled and burst forth from him in a murderous rampage—he shouted out for the guards outside the door. They ran in at once, assessed the situation in half a blink of an eye, and dragged her out immediately, even as she kicked at them and screamed in her own particular brand of indignant, righteous fury.

He hardly listened to her cries. His blood was roaring in his ears almost loud enough to drown out every other sound, and he was feeling too lightheaded to focus on anything but that right now. He stumbled and all but fell into the nearest chair, yanking out the knife as he collapsed onto the cushions with a groan of pain.

_Just a fantasy_, he berated himself now, gasping and clutching at his side to stop some of the blood from escaping. _It was all a meaningless, ridiculous, _stupid_ fantasy_.

Every bit—having his son back, having his wife back, creating his legacy—it all meant nothing. He had no idea how he could have been so foolish, so blind. So hopeful. He'd put all his money on this one bet, and now he had nothing. No son to speak of, and now a vengeful and nearly murderous wife.

For the first time in years, had absolutely no idea what to do now—none of this was at all, under any circumstance, part of the plan—and he would need to do some thinking to figure out where to go next. Thinking first of his own survival, he struggled out of his shirt and tied it around his waist in lieu of a makeshift bandage. He'd have to send someone out to the nearest hospital to bring him back supplies, but for now, this would work. As he put pressure on the wound, he started coming back to himself, and the haze of dizziness started to dissipate enough, just so he could think clearly for a moment.

And in that moment, he decided: he wasn't going down now; he wasn't going to fall apart. It wasn't all going to end here, not because of _her_, of all people. Claire would not be the one who denied him his legacy, not after denying him so much else in life. He had given her a chance to play a part in his triumph—he had given her _so many_ chances—but it was clear now that she wanted none of them, and it was just as clear that he was not going to allow her to stop him or hinder his efforts, not anymore. He wasn't going to waste any more time or effort on her anymore. From now on, it would be about the mission solely, about solidifying his place in history.

If he couldn't have his wife, and he couldn't have his son, he would at least have this.

. . .

* * *

**_Give me none of your truths; I want all of your lies._**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Oh, man. So originally this was supposed to be a short, but holy hell, have I missed writing Joe! (And Joe/Claire.) There's just so much to explore with these two; so much under the surface, so much that's never even touched on in the show, and I love diving into their quagmire of a relationship. I hope you enjoyed this!

Reviews would be most appreciated! Thank you for reading.


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